


home

by vokdas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A little angst, Brief Mention of Suicide, Draco has anxiety, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Panic Attacks, a lot of fluff, everyone’s kind of ooc oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 10:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13097964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vokdas/pseuds/vokdas
Summary: And home, Draco thinks, doesn’t have to be his loving mother and green and silver and Hogwarts and the sight of too much food on the dinner table. Home is where the heart is – is round glasses and red and gold and Blaise’s couch and too much Firewhiskey in his hands.Home is with Harry.





	home

**Author's Note:**

> hello this is my first hp fic so if it sucks pls don’t kill me

Draco is never going to be sure of what exactly happens during the Final Battle, but he does have a vague idea.

He remembers slinking away from the other Death Eaters and muttering something about confronting Potter about his wand, remembers actually confronting Potter with half-hearted threats, remembers Crabbe and Goyle brandishing their wands from behind him. Potter is thinner than he’s been in all of the time Draco’s known him – other than, maybe, when he’d been an evidently malnourished eleven-year-old child – and he looks older than Draco knows he is.

(A younger Draco Malfoy might have sneered, taunted him, told him that had James Potter been alive to see him now, he would be disgusted that such a sight could belong to a boy who supposedly looks just like him, but this Draco is different. This Draco is thinner, just like Harry Potter is; he’s disheveled and dirty and hollow and perhaps a sight that Lucius Malfoy should be disappointed in too.

This Draco is tired – tired because he can’t sleep, tired because he can’t breathe, tired because he’s fighting a war that shouldn’t be his – and if fatigue comes in waves, then this Draco has drowned time and time again.)

Then there’s the fire, and everything is muddy after that.

It’s all a mess of bright flames licking at his heels, burning lungs, a desperate _help me, Draco!_ echoing in his ears, an _I’m so sorry_ tumbling out from between his lips as his brain short-circuits. The roar of the fire is suffocating, drowning out every thought – every _I’m too young to die_ that repeats itself in his head – and his stomach drops when he realizes that Crabbe is nowhere in sight.

He doesn’t have time to ponder it; suddenly Potter is grabbing his arm, tearing him from whatever he’s got a death grip on – why is there so much junk in the Room of Requirement, anyway? – and pulling him onto the broom. Draco’s eyes water as he instinctively wraps his arms around the Gryffindor’s waist, burying his face in his broad shoulder, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Potter is steady and flies with a practiced grace; Draco clutches tighter at him as a whimper rips itself from his throat.

Then they’re landing, sliding ungracefully off their broomsticks, and Draco watches the Golden Trio throw something back into the fire as he coughs his lungs out. His throat clogs up and his vision blurs so badly he can’t see anything for what might be a minute or an hour – he doesn’t know; he can’t tell the difference – and when he can finally blink himself back to reality, the Gryffindors are gone. Goyle is in front of him, carefully checking him over for injuries and asking him if he’s alright.

“C-Crabbe,” Draco hears himself choke out, hiccuping; he thinks he might throw up. “Crabbe is gone, it’s – it’s my fault, it’s all my fault and I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt or d-die and I’m so _sorry_ – ”

“Not your fault,” the big, bumbling boy grunts out. “Vince started the fire. He was dumb.”

 _So were you_ , Draco thinks, but he can see pain past downcast eyes, and for the first time he sees his friend as Gregory rather than Goyle.

They find their way back to the raging battle outside. Blaise is somehow there within seconds, immediately hurrying over to the doorway to ask what’s happened and telling Gregory to go find his parents, and the bigger boy does so without complaint; he seems to understand that Blaise will do a better job of calming Draco’s frayed nerves.

It’s not even a second that Gregory’s back is turned before Blaise is rushing forward, wrapping his arms around Draco’s shoulders. “I was so worried,” he tells him. “Your parents asked me where you were and I thought you were with them. I thought…”

Draco shakes his head, relaxing against Blaise’s hold. “No,” he says quietly. “No, I’m okay.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, a flash of green flies toward them, and although it’s too fast for them to move away it’s too high up to hit them; the spell slams into the wall just above the doorway in a loud of explosion of color and noise and Draco feels himself jumping away, a sound between a whimper and a scream emitting from his throat, his knees protesting in pain when they buckle and hit the ground. It’s a second before he realizes he’s got his trembling hands pressed up against his ears and his eyes squeezed shut, but he’s unharmed. He’s alright.

It’s something he has to convince himself of, but he is.

Blaise helps Draco to his feet, steadying him when he sways and smoothing his hair to calm down. Draco decides he’s been stupid to have so underappreciated his friends this way, because he hasn’t shown them any genuine gratitude in all the time that they’ve known each other, and now it’s too late.

Now is too late for a lot of things, though, with Crabbe dead and the survival of both Blaise and Gregory uncertain, and Draco thinks regret is cold as it settles heavily in his chest.

“Are you ready?” Blaise asks.

Draco doesn’t trust himself to speak without breaking down, so he doesn’t try.

The fighting passes in a blur. Blaise stands steady by his side, battling the Light and Dark sides alike, and Draco fights blindly, mindlessly, dodging when his instincts scream at him to _fucking move_ and throwing up hasty shields when he doesn’t have time to get away. He doesn’t know if it’s fear or adrenaline running through his veins, but it keeps him moving as if he’ll combust if he stills, as if he’ll die if he stops fighting for even just one second –

“Harry Potter is dead!”

Draco forgets to breathe, whirling around in an instinctive search for the voice. His limbs turn to jelly but Blaise is still there, grabbing him by the shoulders to right him before he can fall, easily keeping him on his feet, but he doesn’t register any of it.

_Harry Potter is dead._

“Do you understand now, deluded ones?” the Dark Lord says unto the deafening silence. “He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

“No,” Draco whispers, feeling Blaise’s grip tighten on his shoulder. “No, no, Potter’s not – he can’t – ”

“He beat you!” a voice yells from within the crowd; Draco twists sharply in his friend’s grip to see Ronald Weasley, red-faced and clearly enraged, trying to pull away from his brothers’ grips on his arms to charge at Voldemort but not quite managing to before more shouts erupt from all of the Light side. Draco thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Blaise,” he chokes out through the noise. How can he be suffocating like this when there are no walls to close in on him? “Blaise, I can’t – I can’t breathe, let’s get out of here, _please_ – ”

(He hears Hagrid’s roar of “WHERE’S HARRY?” and isn’t sure if his world is righting itself or crumbling to his feet.)

“Okay,” Blaise says, wrapping long fingers around his wrist and tugging gently, “Draco, come on, let’s get you inside.”

Draco’s eyes are glued to Hagrid’s lap; his chest tightens. “Where’s – where’s Potter?” he asks, voice pitching, and suddenly he can’t breathe, he’s back in the Room or Requirement and there’s fire chasing him, barely a meter away, and Crabbe slips and Goyle is screaming and the Gryffindors aren’t turning back and _he’s going to die_ –

“Draco,” he hears Blaise say firmly, but by now he’s sobbing openly and hyperventilating and can’t stop shaking. “Draco, you’re having a panic attack, okay? You need to breathe, or you’re going to p – ”

Draco doesn’t remember anything of the battle after that.

—

The first few months after the war are admittedly some of the hardest of Draco’s life. Gregory and Pansy never reply to the letters he sends them, although he knows they aren’t in Azkaban because their names aren’t included in the _Daily Prophet_ ’s lists of arrested Death Eaters. Draco tries not to think about what that means.

Malfoy Manor is too lonely with his father in Azkaban and his mother gone – although maybe Draco is less bothered by being alone and more by the memories of countless men dressed in black robes sitting at his dining room table, by the sight tattooed in his mind of his mother hanging from a noose in the middle of the ceiling – and Draco returns only to remain for less than a month before he sells the Manor and moves into a much smaller flat with an old classmate.

He and Marcus Flint had never been particularly close at school, but it somehow works. Marcus is polite and surprisingly intelligent considering his hugely rugged appearance; he pays his half of the rent and does his share of the chores. He’s pleasant enough, Draco supposes, even if he grunts a lot and talks fairly little.

That summer, Draco celebrates his eighteenth birthday on Blaise’s couch, and if all they do is get drunk off old Firewhiskey and fall asleep under a shared blanket, he doesn’t complain.

—

Things are alright, for a while. The days develop a routine for themselves; Draco awakens to the slam of the front door when Marcus leaves for work every morning, fixes himself a cup of too-bitter coffee, checks on the stocks and bonds he’s invested his family’s fortune in and, day after day, stays at home. He does the laundry, dusts the furniture, cooks a dinner he doesn’t eat half of, and almost always falls asleep before Marcus gets home from work.

Draco has always appreciated consistency, but he needs it now, craves it. The war had been unpredictable, and he hadn’t known how to handle it; he doesn’t think he can now.

It’s not long before Marcus picks up a bad drinking habit, though, and Draco figures the thought of a future that stable and predictable was too good to be true anyway.

“He’s drunk again?” Blaise asks when Draco shows up at his doorstep yet again, shivering and dripping wet. It might be a sign that _something’s wrong, get out, get out_ that Blaise is no longer surprised when Draco shows up like this. They don’t mention it.

Draco nods, pulling off his soaked jacket. Sky pours vehemently from the sky in what may as well have been buckets, and his teeth are chattering. Marcus is violent when he’s drunk, and Draco would rather run away a million times than be on the receiving end of it.

“I’ll bring you some dry clothes,” Blaise offers.

“Okay.”

 _Sod off, Malfoys don’t wear rags like yours_ , a younger Draco might have said. This one doesn’t.

—

Winter is cold. Draco supposes he should like it, as most Slytherins do, but this year feels worse than others have. Perhaps it’s just the icy feeling of abandonment in his chest, he thinks, because this winter he doesn’t have anyone to sidle up to to keep warm or money for drinks that ignite something inside him or even a home to cozy up in.

He has a house, certainly. Not a home.

It’s not the same, and it hurts because no matter what he’s done in the past he’s always had a home to return to. Now, for having been too scared to stand up for what he believed in, for having been too weak to fight what he knew was wrong, home is something Draco just doesn’t have anymore.

Home, for Draco, has always been his loving mother and green and silver and Hogwarts and the sight of too much food on the dinner table. Perhaps it’s only a concept constructed in his head, but it’s always been there, and it has nothing to do with thin blankets and cold sneers and Marcus Flint.

Blaise goes out of town to visit his parents for Christmas, so Draco abandons any plans he may have had and spends the holidays holed up in his bedroom. He keeps the door locked for fear of Marcus coming home early with slurred speech and bruising touches, and only leaves his room for meals and to use the bathroom. There are no presents exchanged this year, and although Draco isn’t surprised, nothing keeps him from being disappointed.

—

“Draco, what the fuck?” Blaise shouts when Draco topples through his fireplace. “What happened?”

“I can’t – ” Draco is shaking. “Blaise, I – I can’t – Marcus – ”

“Did he hurt you?” Blaise demands, rushing over and cursing. “Merlin, Draco, you’re shaking.”

“Harry Potter is d-dead,” Draco hears himself say, although he can’t quite register the fact that it’s from his own mouth. “The Dark Lord won, he – he’s going to kill me, Blaise – ”

“No one’s going to kill you,” Blaise says, swallowing, pulling him into a tight embrace. “You’re okay, I promise. You-Know-Who is gone.”

“I saw him,” Draco insists. “You saw h-him too. Harry Potter, he’s dead, the Dark Lord killed him – don’t let him kill me, please, I don’t want to die yet – ”

Blaise sighs and runs a hand through Draco’s hair as the latter dissolves into hysterical sobs. “Look, Draco, I’m going to ask Potter to come over, alright? Will you believe me then?”

“No, no, don’t l-leave,” Draco says, suddenly desperate, gripping Blaise’s shirt tightly in his hands, tears streaming down his face. “Please don’t go.”

“I’m just going to Floo call him,” Blaise says placatingly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Blaise waits for Draco to nod before he carefully detaches himself from his friend’s trembling form and makes his way over to the fireplace to flick Floo powder into the flames and call for the Head Auror’s office at the Ministry. The fire turns bright green, and Blaise grimaces before sticking his face directly in it.

“Potter!”

There’s a dull thud from inside the office, followed by a curse. “Bloody h – Zabini? What the shit?”

Blaise lets out a bark of laughter. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Right.” Potter sounds distinctly annoyed. “Do you, er, need something?”

“I have Draco Malfoy with me. He, er, would like to see you.”

“What do you want me to do, proclaim my love for him from the rooftops?”

“Yes, Potter, that would be wonderful,” Blaise shoots back, gritting his teeth. “Could you just come over? Please? He’s not doing so great.”

That seems to catch the Auror’s attention. “What do you mean?”

Blaise doesn’t know if the full effect of his glare is conveyed through the fireplace, but Potter sighs and gets up regardless. Blaise pulls out of the fire and turns back to Draco, who’s still sobbing and now has his face buried in his hands. Blaise’s heart twists.

“Hey,” the Italian says softly, crouching to pull Draco into his lap. “Potter is on his way, okay? You’ll see. It’s going to be fine.”

“He – he’s dead,” Draco cries. “I saw him.”

“I’m very much alive, actually,” a voice says from behind them, making Blaise whip around despite knowing exactly who it is. Draco lets out a whimper, hiccuping on a sob, and Potter’s brows furrow. “Okay, what the fuck?”

“Watch your language, shithead,” Blaise murmurs. Potter is already kneeling down, observing Draco with concern clear on his face; the latter shrinks back in Blaise’s hold.

“You died,” Draco says almost accusingly despite the tremor in his voice. “He – he killed you.”

Potter shrugs; a curse is on the tip of Blaise’s tongue before the savior extends his hand like it’s a peace offering. “You can touch me, if it’ll help.”

Blaise almost expects Draco wrinkle his nose and lift his chin and say that he doesn’t _stoop to the level of those as lowly as you filthy Halfbloods, Potter, you bloody lunatic_ , but he knows better now. Potter seems to, too, if the expectant look on his face is anything to go by.

Draco reaches out tentatively until they’re touching, and when he doesn’t violently jerk away Blaise thinks it’s like the knife has cut so far through the tension they may as well have shoved it in a blender and watched it dissolve.

“Malfoy, do you trust me?” Potter asks. He looks concerned, and Blaise tries not to be surprised; no matter how much they may have hated each other at school, Draco looks too pathetic not to worry about right now.

Draco hesitates, but he nods. “Yeah.”

“I’m going to check for a memory charm,” Potter says to Blaise. “Someone – ”

“Flint,” Blaise supplies.

“ – may have altered his memory to convince him the war ended differently. I can’t imagine why, but it’s a possibility.”

Blaise can imagine why, and he wants to throttle Marcus Flint for it.

Potter pulls his wand out of his pocket and mutters something under his breath, frowning at whatever he sees. “ _Obliviate_ ,” he says.

For a minute, nothing happens; then Draco jerks sharply and lets out a whimper before relaxing, trembling and burying his face in Blaise’s shoulder. “You okay?” Blaise asks urgently, patting his cheek. “Do you remember what happened?”

Draco looks up at Potter and away again. “Yes,” he says, leaning back into Blaise’s body. “Thank you.”

It’s not much, but it’s a start. Potter’s look of surprise at Draco’s gratitude speaks volumes about how much the latter has changed, and Blaise doesn’t know how to feel about it.

—

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Draco freezes, hands stiffening over the clothes he’s packing into his trunk; Marcus’s words are slurred. “I’m moving out,” he manages. “I’m sorry about the rent. At least you get extra living space, though? It’ll be nice, I guess, since this place is kind of cramped and all.”

He abruptly shuts his mouth; he’s rambling, and he shouldn’t be, Malfoys don’t ramble. Marcus scoffs.

“Like hell you’re moving out,” he says. “We decided to split the money, you piece of shit. You don’t get to just opt out.”

“He can do whatever the fuck he wants,” Blaise chimes in, glaring; Draco relaxes, immensely glad that, for all his arguing, he’d let Blaise and Potter come with him to get his things from his and Marcus’s flat. “He doesn’t have to listen to you.”

Marcus rounds on him, sneering. “Zabini. Still sucking his dick, I see. I thought the two of you would’ve moved on from that by now.”

Potter is totally calm beside Blaise; Draco doesn’t know how he manages to do it. Blaise inspects his own nails with mock interest. “Draco’s always had good taste.”

“We seem to have very different ideas of good taste.”

“It’d be unfortunate if I had the same taste as a plebeian like you.”

Marcus’s glare is intense enough that Draco looks away although it’s not directed at him. Blaise doesn’t even flinch.

“I hate to cut this reunion short, but we don’t have all day.” Potter’s tone all but screams finality, and a sharp flick of his wrist sends the rest of Draco’s belongings flying into his trunk, which zips itself up neatly. “Have a nice life, Flint.”

“You think I’m just going to let you leave?” Marcus snarls. His lip curls in an oddly Snape-like manner, and Draco unconsciously shuffles closer to Blaise. “You – ”

“ _Stupefy_ ,” Potter mutters, waving vaguely in Marcus’s direction. The brute crumples to the floor with a thud. Draco hears himself let out a startled squeak, and Potter turns back to look at him.

Draco’s cheeks are burning.

“Alright there, Draco?” Potter asks in a voice that, to anyone else, could have been gentle. With their history, though, Draco can’t imagine Potter ever being that way with him; he doesn’t deserve it.

Draco can’t look him in the eye, doesn’t want to lie, but he nods anyway.

—

Blaise, in comparison to Marcus, is a wonderful flatmate. He doesn’t expect Draco to cook for him, doesn’t argue for hours over how to split bills and chores exactly down the middle; he’s considerate and funny and kind. It’s almost foreign how nice he is, but Draco isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Harry – “We’re going to have to get on a first-name basis if we’re actually going to be friends, you know.” – comes by once a week or so to talk. He’s got fantastic stories of Golden Trio escapades and Christmases with the Weasleys; Blaise tells them of better times with his family and Quidditch games he’s been to with them. Draco doesn’t have much to contribute to the conversation, but for the first time he’s perfectly content with listening.

Harry and Blaise, Draco thinks, are too good to him, and he doesn’t deserve them, but he’s not going to question it. Surely once they realize they’re wasting their time with him, they’ll leave; he shouldn’t encourage them to do so if they haven’t thought of it themselves.

“What’re you thinking about?” Blaise asks, jolting him out of his thoughts as he plops down beside Draco on the couch. His arm comes to rest easily around Draco’s shoulders, and the latter leans into the touch.

“Nothing,” Draco says.

It’s not the truth, and Blaise knows it, but he doesn’t ask questions. “Fancy a drink?”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

Blaise’s expression is too innocent for what he’s suggesting. Draco laughs; he doesn’t think he’s been as at ease in years as he is now. He doesn’t think he’s laughed nearly as much, either, and he has no idea where he would be without Blaise. “Okay. Let’s drink.”

He’ll repay him, someday.

—

“This is Oliver Wood,” Harry says when he shows up one day with a slightly older, familiar-looking man. “He was the captain of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team for our first couple of years, if you remember.”

Draco doesn’t, but Blaise seems to, reaching out to shake Oliver’s hand. “Of course. Blaise Zabini.”

“My pleasure,” Oliver says.

He’s attractive enough, Draco thinks; he’s tall, though Blaise might have an inch or so on him, with a fair complexion and big brown eyes. Draco chances a look at Harry and is completely unsurprised at the mischievous look on his face – Valentine’s day is coming up, after all.

“This is Draco,” Harry goes on, gesturing at him, and Oliver barely even glances at him before offering a halfhearted _nice to meet you_ ; he already seems totally smitten with Blaise, though, so Draco doesn’t mind.

Blaise ushers them inside, leading them to the couch and making small talk; Oliver’s responses are enthusiastic, and Harry looks rather amused. Draco goes to the kitchen to grab them drinks.

Since the end of the war, he’s had a hard time with strangers, but Harry has been nothing but kind to him and Blaise is obviously interested in Oliver; the least Draco can do is try and get along with him.

“Is everything okay?”

Draco jumps, nearly dropping the drinks as he swivels around, but it’s only Harry. “I, uh – ”

“I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry,” Harry says, smiling apologetically before reaching over to help him with the bottles of Firewhiskey. “Listen, I know I should’ve ran this whole thing by you first, but Oliver and I have been talking recently and… you know. He and Blaise have been single for far too long.”

Draco nods, redirecting his gaze to the ground. “I know.”

“You’re not uncomfortable with having him here?”

“I want Blaise to be happy.”

Harry blinks at him; Draco tries not to cower under the scrutiny of his gaze. “When did you get so sweet?” he muses. It’s something Draco hasn’t heard before, and he looks up, cheeks coloring.

“I’m not,” he mumbles. “I’m not a good person. I know you remember what I was like in school.”

“These past few months have been enough to disprove that,” Harry argues.

Draco sighs and turns away; he doesn’t want to talk about it. “Come on. We’re not going to get them in each other’s pants without a bit of alcohol.”

“Why would you encourage them?” Harry asks, and the tension dissipates with Draco’s laugh as they go back to the living room.

—

Harry comes over whenever Blaise goes on dates with Oliver, which starts becoming a startlingly regular thing. Draco is eternally grateful for it; although he generally feels safe in Blaise’s flat, he still has a problem with being alone, and having Harry with him gives him peace of mind.

“Blaise and Oliver are really hitting it off, huh?” the ex-Gryffindor says as they lounge on the couch. Draco’s curled up into his side, eyes closed, trying not to think about anything but Harry and happiness and home.

“Yeah,” he says. “Blaise really likes him.”

It’s true. Blaise can’t keep the smile off his face whenever he talks about Oliver, which he does a lot; Draco thinks he knows more about Oliver from Blaise than from Oliver himself.

Harry smiles. “Oliver likes him, too. He’s always liked someone with a bit of brains.”

“Blaise is smart,” Draco agrees.

“So are you,” Harry tells him. “You and Hermione were the brightest in our year.”

Draco hasn’t thought about Granger in years, and he’s surprised to find that his memory of her hasn’t filled in the slightest; he remembers everything about her from her bushy brown hair to the periwinkle dress she wore to the Yule Ball. No matter how hard he tries, he hasn’t been able to forget much of anything about Hogwarts.

“Does she still hate me?” he asks.

Harry frowns. “Hermione doesn’t hate anyone, Draco, and she certainly doesn’t hate you. We may not have liked you, but none of us ever hated you.”

“But I was so mean to all of you.”

“It’s not like we were nice to you.”

“I did a lot of bad things.”

“We all did.”

Draco wants to argue further, wants to say that _at least you weren’t a Death Eater, at least you fought on the right side, at least you never hurt anyone you didn’t have to_ , but he knows Harry will brush it off like none of it matters although all of it does.

“Do you still have scars, Draco?” Harry asks quietly. “From when I cursed you in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom?”

Draco doesn’t think he can answer honestly without his voice cracking like a little second-year, and he pulls up his shirt. The jagged white lines against his flesh say what he knows he can’t, and Harry’s calloused hands are gentle when they touch his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. There’s something in his voice that Draco doesn’t recognize, something he’s never heard before. “I didn’t think it… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Draco tugs his shirt back down and looks away. “I deserve it.”

Harry kisses his forehead, cards a hand through his hair, and Draco is surprised when it offers the comfort it intends to. “You never did.”

Draco doesn’t know why he doubts Harry’s words, but he does.

—

“Harry’s single, you know,” Blaise says conversationally one day over dinner. “He and Ginevra Weasley broke up right after the war ended.”

Draco raises a brow. “Okay.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

Blaise sighs. “For Merlin’s sake, Draco, I’ve seen how you look at him. He’s into you too, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Still! He really likes you!”

“That’s nice, Blaise.”

Blaise looks a little put out. “Why aren’t you excited about this?”

“I don’t like Harry,” Draco says. “He’s just… a really good friend.”

It’s not entirely the truth. Draco can’t deny that, over the past few months, he’s grown incredibly fond of Harry; Harry is kind and funny and protective and everything Draco’s never had the privilege to appreciate. Now that he does, though, he’s almost hyperaware of how much it means to him, and he knows Blaise knows, because Draco can’t keep a secret to save his life.

As expected, Blaise says, “Draco, I love you, but that is complete bullshit.”

Draco deflates. “I know.”

—

“I really like him, Draco.”

Blaise is more drunk than he’s been in ages – which is just as well, since, with Oliver out of town for Easter and Harry staying with the Weasleys, Draco is the only one around to witness it. Draco sits cross-legged, smushed against the corner of the couch, drifting pleasantly in a haze of alcohol and one-in-the-morning fog. “Yeah?”

“He’s really cute,” Blaise says, plowing on like Draco hadn’t said anything. “And he’s really sweet and witty and – and absolutely _fearless_ , you know, like a real Gryffindor – ”

“Gryffindors are dumb,” Draco complains.

Blaise shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “But Oliver and Harry are alright.”

That’s true, Draco thinks, and they are. They’re stupid and spontaneous and self-sacrificing, but they mean well. They’re kind.

And maybe Harry is more than just alright.

“You like him, don’t you?” Blaise asks. “Harry?”

Draco doesn’t answer, but he thinks Blaise knows the answer anyway.

—

St. Mungo’s is a place Draco tries to avoid going to at all costs, but he supposes he’ll make an exception for Harry.

It’s always Harry he seems to be making exceptions for, though, so he isn’t surprised.

Harry is pale and unmoving on the hospital bed, his glasses set neatly on the table next to him, and had it not been for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Draco would have thought he was dead. The thought scares him more than he expects it to.

Blaise is, for once in his life, stone-faced. He’s soothingly rubbing a worried Oliver’s back, and to anyone else, he would have seemed totally nonchalant, but Draco knows his best friend better; he knows to read into the subtle shaking of his hands and the way he slouches just so. He knows that, despite the healer’s reassurances that Harry is going to be fine, Blaise is afraid.

The risks Harry has to take to be an Auror suddenly seem so much more real, as if Draco hasn’t quite understood them until he saw Harry looking like death. There’s an overwhelming urge in the hollows of Draco’s chest to touch him, to hold him, to protect him from everything bad in the world, although he has no way of doing so.

“Draco, it’s okay,” Oliver says quietly, and Draco starts when he realizes there’s a tear slipping down his cheek. “Harry’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” Draco says, and he does. What he doesn’t add is that that doesn’t make it hurt any less, not when he still sees Harry this way, because Blaise and Oliver could never understand how in his mind’s eye he can see Harry’s blood spilled across the smooth plains of a flat blade, and they could never understand how it feels.

Harry stirs then, letting out a low groan and shifting on the bed; Draco is over at his side in an instant, frantic hands flying over his skin. Blaise claps a hand on his shoulder before he can start to panic, and Oliver mutters something about giving them alone time before leaving the room and dragging Blaise with him.

“Harry, are you okay, are you hurt?” Draco is rambling. “I’m so sorry, Merlin, I should’ve – ”

“Don’t be sorry,” Harry says, his voice hoarse; Draco’s mouth snaps shut immediately. “You did nothing wrong.”

Draco blinks, and blinks, and blinks again until the burning behind his eyes subsided to a dull throb. He’s not going to let Harry see him cry; not again.

“I almost lost you,” he chokes out instead, grasping at Harry’s hand, which thankfully squeezes back. “I – I don't know what I would’ve done. I don’t know how to live without you.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. It’s not that easy to get rid of me.”

Draco laughs, and it’s a wet sound, full of relief and pain and something he can’t quite name. “Is that a promise?”

“I’d promise everything to you if I could, Draco.”

The sincerity in his voice is almost foreign. Draco grew up on disguises, on masks, on thinly veiled lies hiding dark truths, and Harry never fails to surprise him one way or another with no more than honest words and wide eyes.

“You don’t have to do that,” Draco mumbles, then, more honestly, “I don’t deserve that.”

“You deserve the world.”

Draco shakes his head, biting his lip. _That’s not true_ , he wants to say. _I’m a bad person, I’ve hurt so many people, I deserve nothing_ –

“Let me show you,” Harry says. “Let me show you how perfect you are, how good you are. Let me show you that you deserve to be loved.”

Draco hesitates. Harry seems to understand.

“I know it’s not going to be easy, and you’re not going to learn to love yourself overnight,” Harry admits. “But if you give me some time and some effort and some patience, I promise you I’ll give you everything I have.”

He leans in closer so that their foreheads are touching, their lips barely brushing against each other’s, so that Draco could count Harry’s eyelashes if he tried.

“Let me love you, Draco,” Harry says, and it’s like he’s opening the door to how Draco used to be, to how Draco could be again.

(And home, Draco thinks, doesn’t have to be his loving mother and green and silver and Hogwarts and the sight of too much food on the dinner table. Home is where the heart is – is round glasses and red and gold and Blaise’s couch and too much Firewhiskey in his hands.

Home is with Harry.)

“What are you waiting for, a written invitation?” Draco asks, and kisses him.


End file.
